Snapshot (13 page)

‘Not a problem, sir.’

‘I don’t give a frigging fuck if it’s a problem or not. Just do it. Now move your arse, we’re due at the briefing in two minutes. Phone Winter and get him down there, too. He may as well see what he’s getting involved in.’

The squad room set aside for the operational briefing was in one of the bigger rooms in Stewart Street and out of the way of random cops walking the corridors, so it suited the purpose just fine. When Shirley, Williamson and Addison pushed their way through the double doors, they saw that most of the team that had been hurriedly put together to investigate the Caldwell and Quinn shootings had already assembled. Narey was among them, sitting expectantly in the second of three rows of eight chairs. The superintendent nodded in her direction and saw Addison groan at the prospect of explaining the change of plan to his feisty DS in front of a squad room of cops.

Addison eased his way past a couple of CID officers to get to a point where he could catch Narey’s attention and signalled for her to step out of the row and speak to him. She quickly excused herself and went to the side where Addison leant in close and began explaining what was to happen.

‘What? You are kidding me, right?’

Heads turned at Narey’s angry outburst. Addison again spoke quietly but it didn’t go down any better.

‘And that means you can take your seat at the top table here, does it? While I have to bugger off and—’

Shirley’s voice barked over them and brought the argument to a close.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began loudly. The greeting might have been aimed at the whole team but Narey and Addison knew it had been meant for them. They pulled back from each other and took their seats.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he repeated, more calmly this time before turning somewhat theatrically to the large posters behind him.

‘Cairns Caldwell.’ He paused slightly for effect. ‘Malky Quinn.’

Everyone in the room already knew the names tagged to the bloodied bodies on the posters but Shirley wanted to remind them just how huge the consequences of the killings might be. It had the desired effect and every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on the superintendent.

‘I don’t want anyone in this room thinking that their murders are in any way good news,’ he continued evenly. ‘It isn’t. There’s no good news in this for us. We get it nipped in the bud right away or all hell will break loose. I will not have this become a free-for-all for either the press or the dealers. We stop it here and now.’

No one said a word. Heads turned though as the Ops room doors swung open and Winter sidled silently, almost embarrassed, into the room.

‘Welcome to Operation Nightjar,’ Shirley continued to his audience. ‘It starts in this room, it reaches out to everyone in Strathclyde Police, and it ends in this room. We find out who did this and we put them away. It needn’t be any more complicated than that.’

Shirley again looked around the room, his authority unchallenged, as Winter slipped into a seat in the back row, which he felt suited his position in the scheme of things.

‘Forget rotas, forget overtime,’ Shirley was telling them. ‘We are here till this is done and I want that to be sooner rather than later. If you need something you will get it. DCI Williamson is going to talk us through what we already know and what we need to know. Iain . . .’

DCI Williamson pushed back his chair and joined Shirley in front of the PowerPoint presentation, setting about monotonously recapping everything to do with the two shootings and might well have lost his audience but for Alex Shirley’s stern gaze searching the room for anyone’s eyes daring to wander. Williamson was a details man and was missing nothing out. He divided the room up into three teams of six and specified their different roles.

Winter did his best to listen but his gaze kept switching to the hypnotic sight of the two blown-up photographs of Caldwell and Quinn that grabbed the stage above Shirley and Williamson’s presentation. He stared at them, drinking in every dot per inch, wishing it had been him that had taken them, seeing violated bone and singed flesh, guilt and penance, blood and more blood. It was all he could do to tear his eyes away from them.

Williamson was saying that shift patterns had been torn up and every bit of available manpower was to be directed at what had happened at Central Station and Kinnear Road and what may or may not happen from that point on. The baw was on the slates, he told them, and it was their job to get it down again.

As for Winter, he was to be where he was needed and at the beck and call of all and sundry. In other words, he thought, he’d be where the action was and that suited him just fine. More than fine. He stared hard at the photographs of Quinn and Caldwell again, wishing something that he could never have voiced in that room. He wanted more.

Williamson was still in full flow – explaining how the SPSA had verified that the bullets that killed Caldwell and Quinn were fired from the same gun, almost certainly a variant of the army’s L115A3, a designated sniper rifle – when a telephone rang in front of Shirley. The superintendent glared at it for daring to interrupt before picking it up and barking into the receiver.

‘What is it?’

Every pair of eyes in the room were locked on Alex Shirley. All of them, even Winter, knew that it would have to be something important to disturb the super in the middle of a briefing as huge as this one.

As Shirley listened intently, the granite look on his face began to slowly but visibly crumble. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped for just long enough to cause a shiver to pass through the entire squad room.

‘Harthill Services,’ he said quietly as he hung up. Then louder, ‘Harthill Services. Now!’

Half an hour earlier

The white transit van swung off the M8 at pace and headed deep into the first corner of the motorway services at Harthill, coming to an abrupt halt in an acre of space without another car within shouting distance. The driver, his head covered in a black balaclava, immediately opened the door and jumped out of his seat, making for the rear of the van.

He pulled the doors wide and bundled out the two men that were inside. They were both tied at the wrists and ankles and fell onto the ground at his feet. Without saying a word, the driver swung back a boot and crashed it into the midriff of the first man then the knee of the second.

Reaching down, he untied the ankle binds on one man, then the other, delivering a savage kick as he did so. As the two men writhed on the concrete, the masked figure pulled each towards him and undid the ties on their wrists. Standing behind them, he put a boot hard behind the back of each man and pushed them away from the van and in the direction of the services, a few hundred yards away, with only a few articulated lorries in between.

The men stumbled forward, the momentum bringing them unsteadily onto their feet. Both glanced behind them, blinking but uncomprehending. He was letting them go? Given what he had already done to them, the blood and the bruises evidence of it, they were wary of thinking that he would just let them run.

They looked at each other and back to him, then began moving forward, slowly then more quickly, a final glance back then into as much of a run as they could manage. Their injured legs took them as fast as they could allow, heading in the direction of the lorries further along the barren concourse and the petrol station beyond. Their hearts were pounding and they sweated heavily, joints aching and burning, but they didn’t dare stop. They had to get away, to the safety of the lorries. Maybe if they got in among people then they could survive. It hurt, it hurt a lot but they had to run for their lives.

Behind them, they heard the engine of the van start up and knew immediately what it was. They had heard it loud and clear as they hurtled along the M8 and thought it might be the last sound they’d ever hear. The transit had turned over its engine like a pistol signalling the start of a race.

They ran harder, trying to shut out the pain and the fire and the sweat that was blinding them, bursting a gut to get towards the juggernaut lorries and then the petrol station that just might be their salvation. The driver must have stepped on the accelerator because they suddenly heard the engine leap and roar in the distance behind them, taunting them, chasing them.

Stevie looked across at Mark running almost level with him and instinctively knew that it would be better if he got away from him. Sure, they were together in this but the chances of them both getting out of it were slim. He veered off to the left, trying to put some distance between them. Mark saw his move and changed direction to go with him, his arms pumping at his side to keep up his momentum.

Stevie arrowed even further left and when he was followed again, he roared across at Mark.

‘Fuck off!’

‘What?’

‘I said fuck off. Go right. Go the other way from me,’ Stevie panted, blood dripping from his burst lip.

Confusion passed across Mark’s face but he must have decided he didn’t have time to work out why. He swerved right again, putting yards then more yards between them. The pair passed by the lorries, glad to have the sheer size of them temporarily between them and the van. Stevie clambered onto the plate of the first one, pulling himself up to the cab only to find the door locked and no one in. From his vantage point he could see that none of the lorries had drivers in them. He threw a glance back at the transit and jumped to the ground again, the pain shooting through his battered knees as he landed. He shook his head at Mark who was watching him hopefully and they both ran again.

Across either side of the patch of grass that separated the lorry park from the car parking area, onto the forecourt where there were a bunch of cars and drivers up ahead in front of the petrol pumps. It was really hurting now but another two hundred yards and they’d be safe.

They’d passed the first of the parked cars when Stevie heard the noise. He couldn’t be sure if he heard the gunshot first or the sound of Mark hitting the ground or the scream; it all seemed to reach him at once. He knew one thing though, the screaming wasn’t Mark’s. The bullet that tore into his head had killed him before he could make a sound.

Stevie didn’t stop. It had only meant that he’d been right to get away from him. He ran harder, his heart fit to bursting. There were people up ahead, standing with their mouths open, a woman screaming. He would go to them. They’d save him. They had to.

A car door suddenly opened to his left and a middle-aged man got out, obviously unaware of what had happened to Mark, just intent on walking to the services shop. This was his chance.

‘Help me,’ Stevie roared with what breath he had left. ‘Please.’

The man stopped and turned, his eyes widening at the sight of the bruised and bloodied man, bathed in sweat, who was running at him and he took a step backwards.

‘No, you’ve got to help me! Fucking help me!’

Stevie was on the man now and grabbed him, intent on twisting him so that he was between him and the transit van. But almost the second he had his hands on the driver, he felt his own body desert him. His legs couldn’t support him and he was crashing to the concrete, darkness descending on him at a speed he’d never known before. His head hit the ground and he felt the cold rush through his skull like a too-cold ice lolly. There was a big hole somewhere and he was falling into it.

As he slipped away, he failed to hear the third shot, the one that took out the man who had done nothing more than to go for a newspaper or a packet of cigarettes. They’d been the death of him all right, them and the bullet that had exploded into his head. The poor man had already fallen into the same pit of death as Mark and Stevie.

As people gathered round the bodies, hardly any of them noticed a white transit van driving along the roadway that led to the slip-road onto the M8 towards Glasgow.

As soon as Shirley had given the order, eight officers got to their feet, kicking back chairs and pulling on jackets in their haste to get out. Winter was aware of resentful looks from the cops, Rachel included, that were stuck there while he was on his way to the scene. She fired him a glare that didn’t seem to be in jest and he returned it with a shrug that hopefully said that it wasn’t his fault and she shouldn’t hold it against him. She simply glared at him harder for interacting with her in public and he knew it would be a shag-free zone for him for a while. So be it, he thought, the truth was if it was a straight choice then he’d opt for the chance to photograph whatever it was lay at Harthill. Crazy maybe.

Instead he picked up his camera bag, comforted by the weight that told him everything he was going to need was in there. He hefted it onto one shoulder and his photo documentation kit – with its collection of photo markers; gray, white, black and transparent scales; photomacrographic scales; ruler tape and steel tape measure – onto the other and tagged on to the back of the small scrum that was filing through Stewart Street en route to the car park.

When they got there, the group split into two, Shirley leading one and Addison the other. Addison signalled for Winter to follow him to where his Audi A5 was parked and nodded towards the back. Winter had asked him in the past about why he needed such a flash motor but Addison would just look down at his expensive suit and give a self-satisfied wave of both hands as if to say, ‘Hey, I’m worth it.’

Two other CID officers joined them in the car, Colin Monteith in the front and a sombre-looking blonde woman in the back. Winter had barely closed the door when Addison accelerated away, throwing him back in his seat and scrambling for the safety belt.

‘Colin, you and Tony obviously know each other. DS Jan McConachie, this is Tony Winter. He photographs dead people.’

The blonde cop looked over disinterestedly for a moment before turning her gaze back to whatever she was finding so fascinating out of the window.

‘Okay, here’s what we know,’ Addison said as he pulled out of the gates in second gear, hammering onto Glenmavis Street and towards the motorway. ‘We have three dead at Harthill, two beaten up and shot in the back of the head from a distance, the other shot in the face. It doesn’t take much of a stretch to link them to Quinn and Caldwell. Witnesses told uniform that they saw two of the men running, almost staggering, through the car park on their way to the area with the petrol pumps and the shop.’